


Let's

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aggressive!Will, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Denial, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sexual Tension, Shy!Will, Smut, literary, rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Hannibal is kissing him, kissing him very firmly, insistently and gently——and he is whispering that the world is not ending, that the world will not crumble into endless night if Will let himself bend. And so, Will bends into Hannibal, feels the ridges of muscle, even through the confines of the suit, he can taste the other man, silky on his tongue, and he can see the glint of Hannibal’s teeth, the shine of his eyes and the bow-like curve of his back, his compressed, rough voice and he wonders—-is he the only person that notices these things about this man?</p><p>
  <i>two firsts, and a last. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkDreamsOfHannigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDreamsOfHannigram/gifts).



> Written as a gift for the Hannibal Artist Collective Charity Auction for DarkDreamsofHannigram who made a fantastic donation. The request was for lots of porn, as well as first-time Will, feeling shy. Needless to say, the fic contains both.  
> I hope y'all enjoy reading!

Maybe not talking about sex was a talisman, Will thought desperately as he presses a sponge to Hannibal’s cut lip, feeling his own, tousled hair touch Hannibal’s forehead. He was close—-too close, Will knows, and he can hear the calming rhythm of Hannibal’s heart, and feels his body stir as Will applies the stinging iodine on a cut, and Will thinks (quietly) that maybe he should reach out into the thin, freezing air and pull out the words he so wanted to tell the wounded man, but then, he thinks—-Maybe not talking is what is keeping them from ravaging each other.

Tobias Budge was obviously a very fit man, as was proven by the cuts and bruises that were littered all over Hannibal’s face and neck like a child’s polka drawing. Will, currently deaf in one ear, wishes he would stop sweating, when the room was close to freezing. Somehow, they had made their way from the office to Hannibal’s house, one supporting the other, both of them supporting the other, drawing strength and giving it. The night is very still, and Hannibal’s eyes are closed as Will finishes dressing the last of the cuts, but Will knows he is awake, because his breathing was all wrong for sleeping. 

“Anything more?” Will asks, wondering what the cut on the other man’s lip tasted like. He had tasted Hannibal’s lips before, sure, but not when they were split and bruised.

“Just some bruises.”  Hannibal opens his eyes and lets out a breath. “Nothing to worry about, Will. Thank you.”

“I…” Will sits down opposite Hannibal, on a sunken, chintz chair, and tried to speak the words that hung loose in the dimness of the room. “I was so afraid that you would die. When—-Jack told me, he said the medics said you were injured. I—-I expected the worst.”

“Are you afraid of dying, Will?” Hannibal was a psychiatrist from birth to death.

“I’m terrified.” Will’s laugh puffs from his lips, sharp as acid. “We work in this field where men drop like flies, and bugs——I don’t want to die without—-“ 

“Tasting the elixir of life.” Hannibal’s smile is thin on his face, and he stands up, opening his arms to Will, who enters as if Hannibal’s arms, spread wide, held the secret to eternity. He presses himself against the man, feels the crispness of his suit and the slight undertone of sweat under the expensive perfume. He wishes he was not holding a bruised man in a freezing room, but standing outside with him on a summer night thick with stars, but he could not choose what he was dealt.

“I don’t want to die without—“ He lets the words hang in the air, Will does, because he is so afraid, so frightened of what would come, should come, and will never come. He presses himself even harder against Hannibal, forgetting for a moment the fact that the man was probably black and blue, and he thinks aggressively,  _we fit together so well_ , and they do. 

“You are not the sort of person to just die.” Hannibal’s breath ruffled Will’s hair, and he spoke into his skull. “You will live, only because you deserve to.”

The doctor presses a kiss to Will’s face, heated and glimmering, and Will found out how bruised lips tasted like. He tasted the metal of dried blood, and the sting of iodine, and he tasted Hannibal beneath all these tastes, strong, and unrelenting.  Will’s hands did not know what to do, but they slid up Hannibal’s suit, and rolled on his shoulders. Will wants to be a screen, or a sun, and take Hannibal’s darkness too.  He feels Hannibal’s hands work to remove his suit, and he feels something between his legs, a thick and heavy feeling of _want_. 

It scared him.

 He pulled away from the kiss.

“I don’t think I—-“ Will mumbles, and he sounds so hollow. “I’m not—-“

“Will—-“ Hannibal whispers, and his breath is hot on Will’s neck. “You are fine.”

“I can’t.” Will closes his eyes and tries to stop the burning in his eyes that tries to spill—-acid like—- onto his cheeks. “I’ve never.”

“Stop thinking.” Hannibal’s voice is a little wild, and he presses Will against him again, and Will wishes that he could align himself to fit Hannibal’s gaps and chasms, and maybe, in some other world, Will would not be so terrified, so awkward, and they would fit together like clasped hands. Maybe in some other world, Will would not be  _frightened_  of what would come, and he would be the fullness for Hannibal’s empty spaces. 

A sob escaped his throat.

This time it was Hannibal who drew away from the kiss, his eyes limpid, and his lips curved into a soft smile.

“You tell me what  _you_  want.” Hannibal lets a hand slither upward to Will’s face, and lets it linger there, as if studying the stubble.

“I—-I don’t know.” Will inhales sharply, and explosions go off in his head and glimmer behind his eyelids. He wants so,  _so_ much.

”Do you want me to touch you, Will?” Hannibal’s accent is thicker than he remembers and his mouth is close enough to tickle Will’s ear. A large, rough hand (Will had always admired Hannibal’s hands) snaked down Will’s torso, and he felt himself draw a shuddering breath, Hannibal’s hand felt as if it were enough, but it was not. The older man pressed another, lighter kiss to Will’s lips, before drawing away. 

“Do you want me to…  kiss you?” Hannibal’s hands still played around Will’s crotch, covered with corduroy pants, and he could actually sense the smile on the doctor’s face. Will breathes in, and sees Hannibal as a kaleidoscope, and of course, he does not understand him, but he glimmers with startling brilliance.

“Yes.” Will agrees.

And Hannibal is kissing him, kissing him very firmly, insistently and gently——and he is whispering that the world is not ending, that the world will not crumble into endless night if Will let himself bend. And so, Will bends into Hannibal, feels the ridges of muscle, even through the confines of the suit, he can taste the other man, silky on his tongue, and he can see the glint of Hannibal’s teeth, the shine of his eyes and the bowlike curve of his back, his compressed, rough voice and he wonders—-is he the only person that notices these things about this man?

“More?” Hannibal’s voice is a gentle steep, and Will wants——he wants to bend.

“Ye—-No—-I.” His eyes are shut tight and his voice is the fragile end of a leaf, his eyes too bright, like holes burnt into his face.

“Yes.” Hannibal answers for him. His fingers gently skim across Will’s buttons, and his shirt seems to slide off his body, a heap of plaid on the floor, and he feels cold, long fingers playing on his nipples, he sucks in a fresh breath of icy air. He was falling irrevocably in love with the man standing in front of him, his hair, disheveled from it’s gel-stiffness, this man whose mouth is on his neck, who is playing with Will’s belt, and Will, as if by chance, takes Hannibal’s own, silken shirt off his back and lays it on the kitchen island. Now, Hannibal’s kisses no longer taste of blood and the vestiges of pain, they taste of longing and roughness, and he is holding Will so close, so close and Will feels the lightly muscled torso, and he runs his hands through Hannibal’s hair, very warm, a little rough, and he twists his hands into them.

Hannibal decides firmly, that he is in love with the tiny pieces of Will, his muttering, and his nervousness, and the cold sweat on his back. The way he tangled his hands through his hair and the fear and the——want in his voice and he is dizzy. To think that he has known Will all these months, talked with him about the monsters in his head, but never noticed all this about him. Will feels Hannibal’s desire sharply in his head, and it scares him, the smell of _want_ , but he doesn’t mind, because the man keeps kissing him, deep, breathable kisses, and he feels Hannibal’s erection on his thigh, and it made him want. It made Will want so much.

‘’I am not—-“ Will tries, and he wants to say  _I am not whole_ , or maybe  _I am not deserving of your perfection_. He tries to laugh, but the blood rushes from his head, and he feels himself swelling, he wants—-he  _wants_.

“You are everything.” Hannibal’s voice is low and rough, and it makes Will think of a poem.

_tiger tiger burning bright._

He feels Hannibal’s mouth on his nipple, and he leans back against the kitchen island so—-so hard, as the man’s tongue goes down, it is trailing past his stomach, and Hannibal is kneeling, and even though the room is chilly, Will feels an unexpected, glowing sort of warmth to himself, and Hannibal is opening his belt-buckle. He was not surprised to find himself hard, but he  _was_  when Hannibal put the warm, wet cave of his mouth over his cock, and ran his tongue down the length of it.

Will shudders.

Hannibal’s mouth is over his cock, and he is shuddering at the pleasure the man could evoke with his tongue, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip of the organ and he throws back his head, breathing harsh, sharp breaths. Hannibal was licking his cock hungrily, longingly and his nails were leaving solitary red marks on Will’s buttocks, and he wonders——is this what it felt like to be  _insanely happy_.  His hand snaked into Hannibal’s damp hair, and stayed like a mainstay, as the man drew back, and looked up at Will. He was beautiful, Will thinks with a shaky, teary breath, Hannibal looking up at him was so beautiful. His hair was over his face, sticking to his damp forehead, and his eyes were hungry, wide and they were burning like torches in the midst of blackest night, his mouth sore, swollen from kissing, and wet—-delightfully wet from the effort of licking Will.

He rises up and he slides off his own pants, and strokes his cock lightly, although it was delightfully hard, and his eyes are closed, perhaps with the memory of Will’s cock inside his mouth. Will stares at Hannibal, and the image of him thrums inside him like a foetal heartbeat, it writhes and dances behind his eyelids, the image of this beautiful man with the limpid eyes, the wet mouth, and the hair smattered torso of an older man.  Will feels aroused, aroused, and unstable, he does not feel capable of keeping this other man steady, his lover with the bruises on his body, reddish-purple, and the swollen,  _touchable_  mouth.

Hannibal bites on Will’s neck, as if the action is saving his world, and his hands are squeezing his buttocks, they are pressing him hard and he can feel his cock swell, and he is breathing harshly. He can feel the coldness of the kitchen island behind him, and he backs up onto it, he untangles his hands from Hannibal’s hair, and pushes himself up onto the white, tiled kitchen counter. He is sitting there, looking like a  _god_ , thinks Hannibal satisfied, he looks like a  _god_ , with his curling, tumbling hair and his nervous eyes, he is Hannibal’s god, and Hannibal is his. Hannibal feels fierce and bright, looking at Will, his thighs open slightly, and his mouth open, wet from kissing, and the exertion. Hannibal carries Will bodily to the bedroom, his hands supported under Will, Will’s cock rubbing teasingly against Hannibal’s stomach.

When Will is deposited on the bed, he is lying with his head thrown back, sweat on his thighs, and his cock hard and stiff, shining softly with Hannibal’s saliva. He is a vessel, waiting for Hannibal to enter him, and he feels exquisite, open, he feels like a forever waiting for never. Hannibal kneels on the bed, one knee on either side of Will, and he grasps the detective’s face in his hands, and smells hard, the deep, feverish scent of Will, and the sweeter smell of sex.

“You are sure, Will?” Hannibal whispers, and his voice manages to soothe, and inflame at the same time.

“I—-I don’t—“ Will’s eyes fill with the easy tears again, and he wishes he could say yes, that he was not so—-so nervous, that his interest and arousal would rule. “Please—-f—“

“Fuck you?” The word does not sound vulgar from Hannibal’s lips, it sounded like something that needed to be done, needed to be done  _now_. “Let me fuck you, Will.”

“Y—yes.”

Will takes a sharp breath as Hannibal’s warm, large hands find their way to his asshole, and he is spreading Will open, Will feels sensible and frothy and he sees Hannibal as though through a faraway drawn curtain. Hannibal is lowering his face again, and Will feels the wet snaking of Hannibal’s tongue, and he is licking him, he is licking him so hard that Will feels as though he would——. Will takes his cock in his hand and begins stroking it softly, not wanting release, not now. He feels the slight scrape of Hannibal’s teeth against his asshole, and he thinks—- _I am being eaten_.

Hannibal rises again, and his lower face is wet, as he brings Will upwards  to kiss him, long and longing, and Will can taste himself, and he can taste Hannibal, and he thinks that there is nothing left for him to discover.

Hannibal is fucking him with a finger.

Will’s head was thrown back against the pillow, and he gasps in delight (ecstasy?),  and there is something clawing at the pit of his stomach, it is want, want. He is determined to make as much of a glory out of this shadow stained world, and glory is Hannibal, in name and in form, glory was the man who now had two fingers inside Will, methodically, yet erratically pumping inside him. He removes his fingers and Will feels denied, as if a child from whom a balloon was taken away.

“You are sure?” Hannibal asks for the final time, and Will’s legs are spread open on the bed, Hannibal’s cock is poised at his entrance, and the man is supporting himself on his hands, he is sweating slightly, and Will will never, he will never, ever say no.

Hannibal enters him with a push, and Will feels his own cock harden more (although it had seemed impossible). Hannibal is poised over him in a macabre delicateness, and Will feels as if he were in another world, and he was lingering idly on the edges of reality. Hannibal begins to gyrate his hips slowly at first, grinding against Will, and he feels Will’s hole tighten imperceptibly around his length, and he thinks he is going to  _explode_ , because Will was so whole, he was so full of Hannibal now. Hannibal thrusts himself into Will, and their faces are so close that sweat is dripping onto Will’s face, and it is not Will’s own sweat, but he licks it off with the air of a man who delighted in every task.

“Will—-“ Hannibal’s eyes are closed, and he is breathing quickly, irregularly through his nose.  They are so close that Will feels as if he would stick to Hannibal forever, and it does not harm him, that thought. Hannibal is thrusting into him, deep and hard, and Will feels as if he is a barrier, being broken open. His cock rubs on Hannibal’s stomach, the simple action is enough to make him go—-almost over the top, and he is breathing harshly, harshly—-

“Will—-Will—-“ Hannibal is inhaling sharply, almost cutting his nostrils, and Will knows he is close as the man keeps thrusting against him, grinding into him. With a final, shuddering motion, Hannibal almost  _sobs_  Will’s name —-

“Will—-“ His voice is fragmented and broken, steeped in ecstasy, and that, just the tone in his voice is enough to send Will over the crumbling edge of sanity, and he is submerged in fire, he is going to explode explode explode. And they are sated, and Hannibal pulls out of Will and lays beside him, Will feels Hannibal’s seed within him, and he wishes it would stay forever, a small, insignificant part of Hannibal lodged forever within Will. Will’s come is smeared over Hannibal’s belly, and Will wants to lick it off, but Hannibal is sleeping, his eyes closed lightly, and Will listens to the mere  _existence_  of him, the rumble of his stomach under the layers of skin, and muscle, the soft working of the jaw, his slight, sleepy inhales and the curve of his hip-bones against his groin. Will looks at Hannibal and he wonders (quietly) whether he deserved such perfection, and the thought, that he,  _Will Graham_ , was lying next to such perfection, it makes him hurt a little, like lye on skin;

He falls asleep slowly.

 

The first time Will realizes he is in love, he is too late.

 

Hannibal is sitting on the battered remains of an armchair in his house, and he has procured a book from nowhere, disappearing into it, eyes tired yet alert. They have been living together for months in a haze of sex and kisses and wine-stained talking. Will watches him, and thinks, maybe with Hannibal there, the world would not turn itself inside out, and he listens to the quiet, insignificant noises of Hannibal reading, and Will, instead of feeling far less than he should feel about himself, he feels far more. He watches the doctor’s hands, rough and darkened, not the hands of someone with millions of dollars with every click of his fingers.

“Can you read to me?” Will asks politely, because only politeness would do when making Hannibal do things.

“What do you wish for me to read to you?” Hannibal shuts his book and smiles at Will, and the younger man watches the corners of his smiling mouth.

“I don’t know.” Will says, and he doesn’t. “Tell me a poem.”

“All right.” Hannibal clears his throat, and recalls, before beginning to recite, his accent making his words tumble over each other like rippling wine., he will read until his voice closes in on himself.

“I cannot say, and I will not say,

That he is dead, he is just away—

With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand,

He has wandered into an unknown land.”

Will closes his eyes and listens to the man’s words. It is a simple, easy poem, no hard metaphors, no difficult words, it is an easy poem, it is a perfect one.

“And left us wondering how very far,

It’s needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you—-Oh, you, who the wildest yearn,

For the old-time step and the glad return—“

“Think of him faring on, as dear,

In the love of there as the love of here.

Think of him still the same—-I say,

He is not dead, he is just away.”

Will swallows the hard, tingling lump in his throat, and he wonders if Hannibal had ever had a man who was not dead (he was just away), or a woman, or a child. He wonders how much—-just how much he does not know about the other man, and the knowledge unnerves him, there is far too much he does not know.

“I don’t know anything—“ Will’s whisper is hoarse and strangled, and it makes Hannibal join him on the sofa, makes him touch Will’s face, his cheeks, his lips. His hands are as cold as granite, and Will’s mouth trembles when he is being kissed, softly.

“I don’t know anything about you.” Will makes himself finish.

“Nor I you.” Hannibal’s thumbs stray across Will’s lips, and his smile bends bowlike across his face, and somewhere (Will thinks), there are a thousand clocks beating like ritual drums.

“I would have liked to see you as a child.” Hannibal’s voice is a throaty mumble. “I would have liked to see you get your teeth in, your hair curling, I would have liked to hear your voice deepen in puberty. I would have loved to see you at twenty, as a beautiful, newly bloomed man. But I cannot.”

A kiss is placed tentatively on Will’s ear.

“Well…” Will grins. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get to watch my teeth fall out, my hair go grey, and my voice disappear.”

Hannibal’s laughter is like the onset of a thunderstorm, and the man buries himself in Will’s neck, and Will wishes more than anything, that he could stop time, make it freeze with this man leaning on Will, but he flickers on the outskirts of time.  He looks at Hannibal’s drawings, scattered on a desk.

“Is this——“ Will disentangles himself from Hannibal, and rises to see the corner of a drawing, he pulls it out, and it blows him away, he is loved, he is burning and blooming. The drawing is of Will, sleeping, and he is perfect, every line, every hair, and he cannot see anything but the drawing. He stares at it and drinks it in, he becomes the drawing and it shivers in his hand, this perfect rendition of Will.

“I love you.” He mumbles through blurred eyes, and he is aware that he has never said these words. “I love you, Hannibal.”

The silence is heavy, and Will would have let the tears fall, had not he felt someone press against him from behind, his sleek, perfumed hands touching Will’s groin. The air feels soft around him, like linen and silk, as if it had stopped in time, merely and just for Hannibal and Will, the  _lovers_.  Will puts down the drawing, and stares at nothing in particular. He wonders if maybe one day they could travel to Florence, and kiss in the rain, he is happy, he is content because Hannibal beats in him like blood.

“I love you,” He repeats, and he absently looks at another drawing, that of a man stabbed and distorted and——

he sees the stag.

No, please, no, no, no, no, forget, forget, forget. 

He was happy, he thinks frantically, and this could not be. Hannibal was his doctor, his friend, his partner, his  _lover_ , but he was not, he was not—-he was. Will laments his happiness, standing there in Hannibal’s arms, and he wonders why, that in his life, tragedy had to scar over happiness, until it became faint on his skin. There is a life somewhere, he knows, in which Hannibal is not ( _a murderer!!!_ His soul shrieks) and Will was not broken, there was a life in which he does not taste bitter embers on his tongue.  Hannibal’s hands find Will’s shoulders, and they rub comfortingly.

He knows, thinks Will. He knows I know.

It was a second (only a simple second) when Hannibal turned him around, pushed on him with his worker’s hands until Will was pressed painfully against the desk, and he feels like all his walls have fallen in and crumbled into pieces. Hannibal’s eyes are dark spaces in a white face, and Will feels a sharp, fleeting pain, like an insect bite. But it is not an insect bite, it is a linoleum knife stabbing at his guts, it is the bite of cold steel breaking him open from inside, it is screaming and tearing at him as Hannibal twists it, and lets go of Will. His hands are bloodied and dark, and his eyes are wild and open. Will looks at Hannibal, takes him in and he thinks  _so many people, so many people_.  Hannibal walks forward, and presses his mouth on Will’s and although Will is bleeding, although he is breaking, and he knows _who_  Hannibal is, he kisses back. He kisses back, and he shudders in the light and warmth of Hannibal, he wants to suck up the darkness and vomit it out, but he cannot, because Hannibal has drawn away, he stood a foot away, covered in Will’s blood, and he grinned. If Will shuts his eyes, for the next ten years, he saw Hannibal’s smiling face, and he always thinks  _maybe I could have sucked up his darkness._

“Will.” Hannibal says to the man, and he looks so proud, as if he had not killed countless men, as if he was still lodged in a bright, happy land of his own making. “Will, I love you.”

Will closes his eyes and he is choking, and he looks at Hannibal, and he sees his dark eyes), and his still-smiling mouth, and there is a horrible brightness behind his blank face. Will’s eyes roll upward and he slumps back against the desk, and he will bleed out there, he will bleed out there. 

Before he leaves, Hannibal throws one last glance at Will, but it seems to slide off the prone man.

When Will last saw Hannibal, he was wrong.

He sat there, throbbing with the pulse of his life, his hands on his knees, his throat working, and his eyes on the door.  He will come, Will thinks calmly, and he lets himself swallow a swig of whisky. It was cheap, strong stuff, and it slid down, burning, and he looks down at his wrists, marred with the pale white scars. He is  _born again_ , Will thinks about himself, and he arises like a god out of his poetic, inexorable self, and he still, still watches the door. He will come, Will thinks. He will come. Hannibal Lecter had escaped from prison with the help of a young policewoman, and now he was roaming the country. Dangerous, the reporters said of him, their voices hissing in static. When Will heard, his heart sunk and soared at the sight of Lecter in his prison outfit, smiling benignly for the camera. Will listened aggressively to every news bulletin with an intensity that frightened him. It had been two days, and he would come, thinks Will repeatedly, he will come.

When he did come, he did not slink through the door like the criminal and dog that he was, no, no, Hannibal Lecter walked through the door with his head held high, and Will wants to double over, he wants to vomit with the  _affection_  that simply sweeps through him, and he wants to cry, he wants to die, but no. Hannibal looks almost the same, Will thinks. But he is not the refined, groomed man that once made Will cry at the thought of fucking him, no, not anymore. He looks a little rough around the edges, and the suit he wears looks slightly too big, his hair is longer, and there is a hint of stubble on his face. But still, he smiles at Will, and does not tell him how he had escaped, how he had gotten here, because in his way, Will did not care.

“Do you want a glass of wine, Doctor Lecter?” He still used the formal  _doctor lecter_  and he wondered, maybe, this was what sin tasted like, the taste of the word on his tongue.

“I would indeed appreciate it.” He says with a familiar twist of his wry mouth, and accepts the drink without question. “You shouldn’t call me Doctor Lecter, Will, I’ve been stripped of the title.  _Such_  a harsh punishment.”

The sarcasm dripped on the floor and puddled.

“You studied to become a doctor.” Will sits down, and he smiles, wondering if Hannibal is surprised that he is not panicking and screaming. “You passed, and so, you are a doctor. They can tell you that you aren’t because you kill people, but, you still are.”

“Ah.” Hannibal looks lightly exasperated, a little amused as he was wont to do. “Reminds me of something, Will. You may tell everyone anything you like, you can deny it all, and you can hide away, and live like a hermit. But that won’t stop you from being  _mine_.”

He hissed a little when he said the last word, and Will thinks that he looks serpentine, a first for him. Will stares at him calmly, without the ferocious desperation Hannibal expected, with a cool, knowing glance. He sips more wine, and he wonders if Will might let him use the shower. He closes his eyes, and for the first time, he does not think of his cold cell, but instead, Will pressed light and warm against Hannibal’s chest, his heartbeat so loud that he is afraid he would go deaf. Hannibal thinks quietly, of score and mathematics, and how, with Will, the score keeps changing. He feels sleepy, and he knows Will’s plan.

“Ah. Sleeping pills dissolved in the wine.” Hannibal closes his eyes, and inhales. “Very crude, Will.”

“You fell for it.” Will grins, and the triumph in his face is almost painful to look at. “I know you’re thinking your dear old nose is rusty, Hannibal.”

“It isn’t.” Hannibal says shortly.

“I know. But you aren’t used to old countryside medicines, are you? Too bad you weren’t ever poor.”

“Oh, Will.” Hannibal feels as if he would drop off to sleep any second, but he feels safe, because Will would never turn him in. “Oh, Will. I am so sorry for all you had to endur—“

“Stop.” Will says harshly, and does not look at Hannibal. He is tired of the man treating him like something that would break, or was already broken. Will feels the persistent hum of Hannibal’s mind, and it chokes him.  He remembers Hannibal as he was, grunting gracefully over him, panting breaths on his neck, and his eyes rolling up into his head.  Hannibal is now sleeping, and Will stares at him for a moment before rising, how he sleeps with his eyes half open, and how his hands rest limply on the chair arms. He stares at Hannibal as though he was a tether, stares (almost  _glares_ ) at his hair that had gotten darker by days of fugitivity, and years of living life in a cell, and at his nose, that looked as if it had been broken once. He wondered how it had broken, because Hannibal was not the kind to get into fights. Will grins a little at the thought.

(in fact, Lecter  _had_  gotten into a fight, he had thrown an uncharacteristic punch at a big, fair-haired prisoner for even  _daring_  to suggest that ‘that Will Gramm’ was probably drunk pissed in a warehouse)

When Hannibal woke up, it is too bright, and he automatically closes his eyes again, and he would not have opened them again, save for the sight of Will standing there in only a pair of loose pants, a vicious grin on his face. He is so beautiful, standing there, he looks like Hades, like Ares, and Hannibal closes his eyes in delight. A cold draft blows on him, and Hannibal realizes that he is shirtless too, wearing only the stolen pants he had obtained, and he was chained to the bed, his wrists connected to the bedpost, and his ankles to the feet of the bed. He stays calm, he does not struggle, and his only thought is to wonder what Will wants.

“Why have you gotten me trussed in this position, Will?” Hannibal says, and there is a hint of a smile on his sullen mouth.

“Doctor Lecter, I…” Will came forward, and Hannibal could see the whiteness of his hips and he swallows dryly. “I think we’ve got some catching up.”

Will kneels on the bed, with Hannibal’s crotch in between his legs, and Hannibal is painfully reminded of the first time they made love. Will is kneeling there, and he is staring at Hannibal, hard enough that his eyes almost burned holes in the man. Will leans forward, and his lips graze Hannibal’s neck, his breath against his hair, his pulse against Hannibal’s heart. He bites down, and Hannibal thrusts his hips automatically upwards, even though they were both clothes, and he closes his eyes as Will bites even harder, sucking frantically on the tender skin. Will raises himself up, and his mouth is wet, and his eyes are wild and straining.  He starts gyrating his hips on Hannibal’s crotch, rubbing his inflamed cock against Hannibal’s through the layers of clothing, and Hannibal breathes feverishly through his teeth. Will notices that Lecter is beginning to sweat, and he is glad.

“Remember this?” Will asks, and he presses his mouth on Hannibal’s groin, blew gently through the clothes, and the warmth made the older man shudder as if he were in the throes of a devilish fever. Will was calm, he was in control now, but still his cock felt as if it would explode when in such close proximity to Hannibal’s. But Hannibal did not deserve it, he did not. Will kisses Hannibal, hard and bruising on the mouth, much different from the sweet, soothing kisses they had once shared. Will tastes blood, and he knows that he has bit Hannibal’s lip, and he merely kisses harder, their teeth pressing against the other’s tongues in a frantic war. Will pulls himself up abruptly, and he is still knelt across Hannibal, and he feels a brief impulse of joy. Hannibal looks almost hurt at being denied what he wanted, and he glares up at Will, who only digs his hands into Lecter’s shoulders, and he knew it would leave deep gouges tomorrow. Will frees his cock from his pants, and rubbed it, although it seemed so stiff as to not need further encouragement, and he moved himself up on the bed so that his cock was on level with Hannibal’s mouth.

“Go on.” Will pants, and relishes the sight of the sweat on Hannibal’s face, dripping into his hair, the man  _wants_  Will. “Take me into your mouth, you love human flesh, don’t you.”

Hannibal takes the entirety of Will’s cock into his mouth with a bone-aching gladness, and he is running his teeth across the head in the way only he knew how. His tongue made wet circles along the length of Will’s shaft, and he bucks his hips, pushing his cock deep into Hannibal’s throat, and the man is gagging, choking, and that is what Will wants, it is what he needs. He takes himself out of Hannibal’s mouth, and lets the man gasp wetly for a second, before returning to assault his mouth with Will’s own, clashing their teeth, and there is more blood on Hannibal’s lips, and bruises on his chest from how hard Will has grabbed him. He glances up at Will, wide-eyed and desperate, and Will thinks, he is so open before me, he is so wide open before me for the first time.

He unbuttons Hannibal’s pants and takes out his cock, it is standing up straight, glistening with precome, and when Will lowers his face to lick him, the cannibal arches his back, and takes in a sharp breath of air. Hannibal lying down, sweating and humming a soft moan in his throat, looks up at the completely nude Will, a jagged scar on his abdomen, how beautiful he looks, his chest heaving, his breaths whistling and his eyes red and animal.

“Will, let me—-“ Hannibal asks, and Will feels the plea in his voice thrum like an orchestra inside him, and his own cock is stiffening further, it feels as if he would explode. He inserts a finger inside himself, and starts to thrust it up and down, reminiscent of what Hannibal used to do to him.  He is kneeling over Hannibal, and the man is wretchedly pleading under him, and he feels like a miracle, he feels in control, he is the one, it is because of  _him_  that Hannibal is writhing on the bed,  _needing_  release,  _needing_  to come inside him.

He breaks into tears when he realizes that he needs Hannibal to come inside him, too.

“Oh, Will.” Hannibal does not notice Will’s tears, and he does not care, because the sight of Will fucking himself with his fingers is too much to bear, his cock was throbbing, and he needed to fuck Will, he needed to enter him. He feels like a misplaced satellite hurtling through space, and he wonders if he still loves Will.  Will was still opening himself up, with three fingers, and Hannibal closes his eyes, wretchedly thinks of the times when he was not bound to a bed and forced to conform to Will, the times when he had thrown Will onto the bed and fucked him senseless, and that’s when he notices Will’s tears. He had cried when we first made love too, Hannibal thinks, and he does not know whether to weep, or to indulge in orgasm.

“Will, oh, Will—-let me.” Hannibal grits his teeth.

“Beg.” Will is still calm and cool, although his prick was red and stiff, he needed release, he needed to be fucked. “Beg me for it, like you made your victims beg for their lives.”

“I never did.” Hannibal mutters, but another spasm wracks through him, as Will grazes his teeth on Hannibal’s shaft, he is still fucking himself with his fingers. He arches his back so high, he thinks his spine will break, but Will withdraws his mouth, and grins.

“Beg,  _Doctor Lecter_.” He says.

“Please, Will. Please let me  _fuck_  you.” When Hannibal had said his part, Will was satisfied, he knew he would and could not expect more, so he moved himself up so that he was crouching over Hannibal’s erect organ, and he lowers himself down, as he feels a sensation he has never felt in years. Hannibal throws his damp head back, and Will starts moving, and riding him, his own cock being pumped furiously as they breathed great, heaving breaths from the sheer wonder, and nostalgia of the act. They start slow, like strings in an orchestra, low inside of them, moving faintly and softly, and the Will begins to move himself up and down faster, and Hannibal is thrusting his pelvis up, this is the chorus, this is their chorus, and Will was waiting for this, for all these years.

When Will comes, he was tired of fragility, he had been fragile for all these years, and he wanted to be vibrant, he wanted to burn. He feels a firelight inside him, pulsating at his groin, and he ejaculates, the come spurting out on Hannibal’s chest, glistening there, and still he continues to move, stroking his spent, sated cock. Hannibal reaches orgasm with an almost sobbing gasp, it has been so long since he was inside Will, and the thought of Will tightening around him was enough to send him into spasms of delight, he is staggered by his own delight as he empties his seed into Will.

Later, they are clothed, in pants, and Will has untied Hannibal from his bonds, because Hannibal would not run. Will knew he would not run. There is a roaring fire screaming itself through them, and they realize, that they are still in love, and the thought embarrasses them. It is still, and silent, nobody would ever believe that a mass murderer was in the very house. Hannibal, this time, is the one holding on to Will, resting his brown head with his silken hair on Will’s chest, silently fingering the tearing scar he has left on the man. Will, knows he should say something, but he cannot find the words.

“Have you missed me?” Hannibal asks, and Will closes his eyes at the sound of his voice, it sounds like dawn and dusk and light.

“Sometimes.” Will says, quietly. “Sometimes the old wound reopens, and I bleed all over the floor. Sometimes I think of the eighteen people that you’ve killed, the seven that you have fed to me, and Abigail, and poor, poor Jack, whose career you ruined. I think of me, and I think of how much you’ve lied, and betrayed. That’s when I don’t miss you, that is when I hate you.”

“But then.” He continues, swallowing. “But then, I remember the first time we fucked. I was so scared, I was so afraid and you were so controlled. I remembered your large hands, and your cock, and your smile when I told you things. I remember the drawing you made of me, and the poems you read to me, and then, then I decide, that I miss you, I miss you so terribly that it hurts.”

Hannibal is silent, his face still buried in Will’s chest, and they are shrouded in darkness and light, their heartbeats are a harsh jangle and each other’s names toll like a bell in the silence, like funeral bells, and Will breathes.

“So…” He says, in a nervous voice. “What about you, Hannibal? Have you missed me?”

There is no response, nothing at all, but Will feels wetness on his chest, and he marvels, _how odd that this time it should be Hannibal who is breaking_ , and Will strokes his hair, silently, like his own hair used to be stroked. He knew that Hannibal did not need to reply to his question, that his answer was clearly belied in his shaking shoulders and his trembling hands, and Will stroked his lover’s smooth hair, and focuses on the noble art of breathing.

When it passes, Hannibal turns his head up to Will, and there is a smile on his face now, despite everything, it was his old smile.

“Let us run away, Will.” He says quietly, without hint of humor, or sarcasm. “Let us go to Italy, let us live in Venice.”

“When?” Will finds himself saying, admiring Hannibal as he languorously stretches on the bed, and he is surprised that he agrees, instead of denying, and asking impossible questions.

“Let us leave today, Will.” He says, and glances at the lightening sky. “Let us leave today.”

“Yes.” Will says, remembering how he had thought this would be the last time they made love. “Yes, lets.”

**Author's Note:**

> WELL THAT'S IT  
> I'm actually quite okay with this piece of work, and I do hope you liked it as well. I tried to keep it in-character as possible, and I'm sorry for like, all the flowery language, it's how I usually like.  
> Please do, do leave comments and reviews, they will always be much appreciated and read throughout!  
> Thank you!


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